


make you new, make you mine

by Zoejoy24



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beating, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Coercion, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Starvation, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24614425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: He intends to see Malcolm remade, reborn.  To break him down and build him back up into his image.  Well, no.  That’s not quite true.  Into Martin’s image.  He is his father’s son, after all.  John reminds him of this unceasingly.There are three things John tries to teach Malcolm, to make him understand:Malcolm—like all men—belongs to God.Malcolm was given to John, his savior, by God.It is John’s duty to shape him into what God wants him to be:  John’s partner.In all senses of the word.  His helpmate, as John sobiblicallyputs it.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 18
Kudos: 87





	make you new, make you mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is the _extended_ edition of two whump drabbles, which was requested by some lovely friends on Tumblr to celebrate reaching 300 followers. 
> 
> I forgot how much I enjoy writing John. 
> 
> Hopefully you all enjoy this as much as I did.

It hasn’t even been a week. Not even seven days. But John has been incredibly  _ dedicated  _ to his task, and Malcolm is already starting to feel himself giving in.

When he’d woken in the basement, he’d been alone, but that hadn’t lasted long. John had joined him shortly after, and for every conscious moment since, he’s been there with Malcolm.

He has a goal, a mission. It’s different with Malcolm than it had been with the others, but John is no less committed. He intends to see Malcolm remade,  _ reborn _ . To break him down and build him back up into his image. Well, no. That’s not quite true. Into Martin’s image. He is his father’s son, after all. John reminds him of this unceasingly. 

There are three things John tries to teach Malcolm, to make him  _ understand _ :

Malcolm—like all men—belongs to God.

Malcolm was given to John, his savior, by God.

It is John’s duty to shape him into what God wants him to be: John’s  _ partner _ .

In all senses of the word. His helpmate, as John so  _ biblically _ puts it.

Malcolm resists John’s teachings at first. He argues, remains stubborn, holds fast to his belief that he’s not a killer, and he’s  _ not _ John’s.

John is less than creative in his punishments that accompany his  _ instruction _ . In the beginning he relies mostly on physical violence. Punching, slapping, kicking Malcolm when he’s down. It’s clear he doesn’t want to ruin Malcolm, just break him enough that he can be remade. Violence and deprivation—little sleep (when John himself sleeps Malcolm has no idea), no food, little water. Water is his only reward for good behavior, and in the beginning, the instances of that are few and far between. The instruction comes in the form of lectures, of John insisting that Malcolm repeat his ‘lessons’ back to him. Malcolm refuses at first, only giving in when his thirst is too great to hold out any longer, and John brings him to the kitchen, turning on the faucet as Malcolm watches, letting the water run freely. He tells John what he wants to hear, then, and gets his first taste of water in over a day.

Malcolm hasn’t eaten since he’s been taken, and what water he’s given comes from John’s own hands, the man lifting a cup to his lips, controlling when he drinks and how much he gets. The first time, Malcolm was greedy, and started to gulp the water down. John pulled the cup back almost immediately and poured the rest over his head. He didn’t bring more until the next morning. Malcolm took slow, careful sips, then, only drinking down as much as John poured into his mouth and no more.

John had praised him, pleased to see that  _ little Malcolm  _ can _ be taught, _ and gave him another glass. God rewards good behaviour, and John, as God’s tool in Malcolm’s conversion, would do the same.

Five days. Five days it takes for the first cracks in Malcolm’s resolve to show. 

John brought him upstairs just after dawn, dragging him outside to help with the chores. His hands are cuffed together, and he’s given nothing more than a pair of threadbare slippers to protect his feet from the frozen ground. No coat, or hat, or gloves. If he tries to run, and John doesn’t find him first, he’ll freeze to death. 

John is splitting wood, and Malcolm stands next to him, shivering, arms outstretched as John piles each new log onto his forearms until Malcolm can barely see over the stack. Then, Malcolm carries the pile to the porch, dumps it, and stacks the logs neatly onto the wood pile.

His arms are burning by the second load, the muscles in his abdomen and legs shaking as his hunger-weakened body strains under the effort, but he refuses to give up or beg for a reprieve. If anything, the physical labor is keeping him in shape. Keeping his muscles strong and his body in motion is important, and considering he spends the majority of his time shackled to the floor it’s good for him to be exercising.

By the time they finish his whole body is shaking, his breaths are labored and he’s sweating despite the cold, the damp fabric of his thin dress shirt sticking to his skin and freezing in the frigid air.

John practically carries him inside, depositing him on the ground in front of the fireplace. Malcolm can do little more than curl into a ball, shoving his frozen hands beneath his armpits as he shakes and shivers from cold and exhaustion.

John builds a fire, and for a moment Malcolm thinks that maybe John is changing tactics, that he’ll give Malcolm a break, let him stay on the floor, in front of the warm fire, on the soft carpet, and recover.

The dream is short lived. John leaves and comes back into the room with a large book—an ancient looking family bible, huge and heavy. He drags Malcolm to his feet and shoves the bible into his hands, orders him to open it to a passage. Malcolm barely hears him, his ears are ringing, vision swimming with the sudden rush of blood that results from being pulled up so quickly. He sways, barely able to hold on to the heavy book with his stiff and sore hands. He knows better than to drop it, though. He shudders at the mere thought of what might happen if he did.

With clumsy fingers he turns the pages, searching for the correct book, chapter, verse. It takes longer than it should, and he can sense John’s growing impatience.

“Read,” John orders. “Don’t stop until I tell you to. If you do, you’ll be punished.”

Malcolm bites back on a moan as he struggles to focus on the page in front of him. At least he’s warm, standing in front of the fire still, still on the rug, not in the basement. 

He starts to read.

John sits, staring into the fire, hardly moving as Malcolm reads, and reads, and reads, for what feels like hours. His arms start to shake, and he jams his elbows into his stomach to help keep them up. His legs are shaking, too.

He’s so goddamn tired, and despite the pain of staying upright so long, the warmth of the fire begins to lull him into a comfortable haze as his body finally thaws, relaxes, and he drifts.

“Little Malcolm, I’m disappointed. I told you what would happen if you stopped.” John’s voice cuts through the stillness of the room, loud and harsh in Malcolm’s ear and he jumps, eyes flying open in surprise and terror at the man’s sudden proximity.

Malcolm sways in place, vision swimming, legs cramping, arms aching from holding the heavy book. He’s been reading aloud from John’s family bible for hours and his voice is hoarse, his throat dry.

“‘M sorry, John. I-I forgot… what?” He sways again, nearly falls. His mind is hazy, confused.

John catches him by the throat, holding him upright long enough to take the bible from his hands and sets it carefully on the side table behind them. Then, he throws Malcolm down onto the couch. He grunts as he lands half on, half off, stomach hitting painfully against the edge of the cushions as he lands. He looks over his shoulder to see John dragging his belt free of it’s loops as he looms over Malcolm’s shaking form. 

“John,  _ please _ . I’m sorry, I just…let me keep going. I’ll do better,” Malcolm croaks out, staring up at John with fear filled eyes, trembling despite his best efforts not to show his captor any weakness. He has no strength left with which to fight his own fear, much less the man causing it.

“You will, next time. This time, you must be punished,” John tells him. His voice is deceptively soft, almost sad. He leans forward and wraps a hand around the back of Malcolm’s neck, pinning him to the couch as he slides his other hand around to undo Malcolm’s fly and zipper.

Malcolm yelps, trying to wriggle away from the sudden invasion of his personal space but John holds him easily in place, shaking him by the nape of his neck like he’s a misbehaving dog and growling at him to stay still. Malcolm whimpers, kicking out weakly with one leg, only to receive a sharp smack to the back of his head before John yanks his pants down, pulling his underwear with them and leaving him bare.

“John, what?” Malcolm gasps, voice muffled by the couch as John continues to push his head down into the cushions.

“I’ve been going easy on you, little Malcolm. I was hoping to win you over with kindness, with patience, but now I see that won’t be the case.”

Malcolm nearly lets out an incredulous snort at that, barely managing to keep it in. He can’t struggle without putting his naked ass even more on display so he stills, trying to steady his breathing and prepare for what he suspects is to come.

The first blow of the belt across his bare flesh is a shock regardless. He cries out, flinching away from the pain, though there’s nowhere for him to go, his hips already pressed tightly against the couch. Once John starts he doesn’t stop, raining down blow after blow. Malcolm tries to remain silent but soon he can’t hold back on his cries anymore. It hurts, the strikes overlapping, hitting against already bruised skin, biting into the tender flesh. It goes on for five minutes, maybe longer, and by the time John stops Malcolm is sobbing into the couch, chest heaving as he struggles to take in a full breath between shouts of pain and pleas for John to stop. He’s crying, tears streaming down his cheeks and into the cushions. When John removes his hand from his neck Malcolm collapses down to the floor, too tired to even hold himself up on the couch. 

John looks down on him silently, eyes raking over him, from his tear-stained face down to his still bare ass. There’s something in his gaze that makes Malcolm shudder and he curls up, back pressed against the couch, legs tucked in tight to his chest as he tries to hide himself.

“Oh, Malcolm,” John mutters quietly, almost reverently. He squats down beside Malcolm and reaches out to run a hand along Malcolm’s side, from shoulder to hip.

Malcolm whimpers at the touch, but he’s trapped between the couch and John with no way of escaping it as John continues to run his hand over his body. He watches John warily, looking for any sign of his intentions. He knows that John  _ wants _ him. He hasn’t made any advances yet, but he hasn’t been subtle about it, a few touches here and there lingering too long, loaded gazes that could mean nothing else. It’s been a sword hanging over his head, and the thought that John may actually act on it now, when he’s the weakest he’s been since John took him, has him shaking harder and struggling to breathe.

John rests his hand on Malcolm’s hip once more then grabs, pulling Malcolm forward onto his front and Malcolm panics, thrashing out and kicking John hard in the shin, sending him toppling backwards. Malcolm freezes in shock at having actually landed a blow before recovering enough to push up to his hands and knees and attempt to get away.

John recovers faster. He’s back on his feet in an instant, grabbing the back of Malcolm’s shirt and dragging him up onto the couch. 

“John, please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean any of it. Please, I won’t disobey you again,” Malcolm begs, turning onto his back, hissing in pain as his abused skin scrapes across the fabric of the couch. He reaches down to pull his pants back up but John swats his hands away and yanks them down even further. Malcolm sobs, desperately trying to put more distance between himself and the other man as John continues to advance on him.

“Won’t disobey me again? Is that a promise, little Malcolm?”

“ _ John _ ,” Malcolm moans, realizing too late the trap he’s laid for himself. “John, please.  _ Please _ don’t.”

“It’s time you learn your place, little Malcolm. You may not be ready to join me in my work, but there are other ways you can help me, other things I need from you.”

Malcolm shakes his head, scrambling back ‘til he’s pressed into the corner of the couch and then turning, trying to throw himself over the edge,  _ away _ from John. He knows running is pointless, that he can’t escape John and yet he refuses to lie down and take it, to act like this is something he wants in any way.

John catches him by the chain between his wrists and yanks, sending him tumbling painfully to the floor. He cries out as he lands hard on his hip, and the momentum carries him over onto his front, trapping his arms beneath him. John is on him in an instant, straddling his thighs and pressing a hand between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned in place easily.

“No, fuck, John please,  _ please _ don’t do this,” Malcolm begs, shaking his head in desperation.

“Stop fighting, little Malcolm. It doesn’t have to be this way. I could take care of you, too,” John tells him, rubbing a hand along his bruised and beaten ass in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. Malcolm whimpers, the pain from even such a light touch nearly enough to make him cry once more. He shudders, choking on a sob as he thinks of how it will hurt when John is pressed up against him…

“Wait John, please, I’m hurt. It hurts, please just…not now. Just, wait. John, please,” he whines, trying a different tactic. “I’ll be good, I will, next time. When, when it doesn’t hurt.”

John pauses, the pressure against Malcolm’s spine lessening somewhat and Malcolm holds his breath as John considers his words. Just when Malcolm thinks that John may relent the pressure returns and John smacks his already aching ass  _ hard _ , the sound of flesh hitting flesh nearly drowning out Malcolm’s pained cry.

“ _ John _ !”

“You were punished for a reason, Malcolm,” John grunts, rubbing and squeezing Malcolm’s ass where he’d hit, ignoring Malcolm’s grunts of discomfort. “What good is a punishment if you don’t suffer from it?”

Malcolm moans in despair. He thinks of a hundred more arguments, but John is determined. He presses a spit-slick finger into Malcolm’s hole, but the moisture does little to ease the burn of the stretch. Malcolm hisses in a breath, pressing his forehead against the floor and focusing on breathing, on trying to relax, no longer fighting the inevitable. 

“Oh, little Malcolm, I’ve wanted this for so long,” John groans as he slips another finger in beside the first, far too soon.

Malcolm gasps, hands curling into fists as he struggles to breathe through the pain. 

“I’ve waited so patiently, waited for you to be delivered to me. And now you’re here, mine.  _ Mmm _ , so perfect for me,” John continues, fucking his fingers in and out of Malcolm’s body faster and faster as he speaks. There’s no finesse to it, he isn’t doing it for Malcolm’s benefit. He’s  _ claiming _ him, asserting his ownership over Malcolm’s body, uncaring of Malcolm’s own pleasure or comfort.

He pulls his fingers out, and the weight on Malcolm’s thighs disappears, though the hand on his back is firm as ever. He hears the telltale sounds of John freeing himself from his pants and shudders, putting up one final struggle, twisting beneath the weight of John’s hand on his back, bucking in an attempt to throw the man off. It does him no good. John drops his weight back down onto Malcolm, crushing him against the floor. Malcolm grunts at the impact, stilling when he feels John pressing up against his entrance.

“Please, John…” he tries once more.

“I hope, in time, you’ll be begging me for a different reason, little Malcolm,” John groans as he pushes his way into Malcolm’s body in a slow but steady slide. 

Malcolm whimpers as he bottoms out and grinds his hips against Malcolm’s sore ass, moaning obscenely as he does. John hadn’t bothered to pull down his own pants, and the sharp metal of the zipper scrapes against Malcolm’s bruised and tender skin with each shift of John’s hips against his ass. He goes limp beneath John's body, jaw clenched against the pain, knowing that fighting now will only make things worse.

John takes him hard and fast, a thorough fucking that leaves Malcolm gasping at each punch of John's cock inside of him as it drives the air from his lungs. Despite everything, it doesn't take long for the burn of being stretched too much too soon to lessen, for the friction to shift from something painful into something  _ different _ . John shifts above him and the new angle has his cock hitting Malcolm’s prostate dead on. Malcolm barely bites back on the shocked cry of pleasure that threatens to escape the first time John fucks him  _ just so _ . His own cock starts to fill, his body suddenly more interested in the proceedings. That doesn’t last long, though. John shifts them both, holding tight to Malcolm’s hips and dragging him where he wants him, like a doll. The angle changes, John starts fucking deeper and harder, and it hurts, inside and out and Malcolm’s erection fades quickly. Behind him, John is loud and vocal about his enjoyment of Malcolm’s body. He tells him how good he feels, how perfect Malcolm is. Made for him, taking him so well.

It’s over quickly, and yet not quickly enough. Malcolm doesn’t react when John thrusts in deeply and stills, shouting as he fills him with his seed, or when he pulls out with a grunt. He yelps when John smacks his ass again before walking away and leaving him lying on the floor, silent tears falling into the carpet, trembling.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there before John returns and hauls him to his feet, half carrying, half dragging him through the house to the bathroom. Malcolm stumbles, nearly falling, leaning heavily against John even though he hates relying on him. His legs are weak and his pants still hang halfway down his thighs, making it even harder to walk. 

When they reach the bathroom John frees his wrists from the shackles for the first time since he'd put them on. Then, he strips off Malcolm's clothes, and while he’s quick, his hands still touch more than they should, sliding across skin and lingering longer than necessary. Malcolm shudders but doesn’t fight it. What’s the point now?

John pushes him towards the bathtub and Malcolm stares at it uncomprehendingly for several long moments before John  _ tsks _ impatiently and grabs his arm, pushing him forward and practically placing him bodily into the tub. Malcolm falls against the wall, wedged in the corner to keep upright as realization dawns.

“Wash. I won’t have you smelling like a filthy animal in my bed,” John snarls, as if it’s Malcolm’s fault he hasn’t had a shower in nearly a week.

And then John leaves him alone, pulling the door shut behind him. There’s a rattle on the other side and Malcolm guesses John is locking him in, but he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care if he never leaves this room again.

A shower. And there’s a toothbrush on the counter. He giggles, or maybe sobs, he’s not sure, and then his legs give out and he sinks slowly down to sit on the floor of the tub. The cool of the porcelain is soothing against his sore skin. He reaches forward and turns the water on cold, sticking his head under the faucet and drinking deeply before adding hot water to the mix and turning on the shower head. Water cascades down over him and he doesn’t think anything has ever felt as good. He forces himself to wash, quickly but thoroughly, unsure of how long he has. He brushes his teeth, too, then leans against the side of the tub, head tilted back, mouth open, and lets the water run down over him, drinking his fill, feeling more human than he has in days.

He drifts off, body lulled into a state of relaxation by the warm, steady fall of the water sluicing over him, washing away everything that had happened to him since John took him. He sleeps.

The water turns ice cold and he wakes with a gasp, scrambling back against the wall to escape the freezing spray and knocking his head painfully on the edge of the tub as he flails. The shower turns off, leaving him gasping and shivering and staring up at John in shock and fear, curling in on himself.

“Enjoying yourself, Malcolm?” John asks with a sneer.

“I washed,” Malcolm replies. “I—you left me here. I did what you said.”

John’s expression softens and he nods. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you not to sleep. You followed my instructions, I can’t fault you for that. Get up. Dry off. Let’s get you to bed.

Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat at that. It’s the second time John’s mentioned  _ bed _ , and Malcolm doesn’t know what he means by it, but he’s certain it can’t be as good as it seems. He struggles to push himself up to his feet, hands slipping against the damp, slick tile, head throbbing from where he’d hit it against the tub. He hurts in other places, too, but tries not to dwell on it.

“Hurry up!” John hisses, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him from the tub.

Malcolm’s shins knock against the edge as he’s pulled forward, John’s grip on his arm painfully tight as he yanks him to his feet. John shoves a thin towel at him. “Dry off, unless you want me to do it. Then put these on.” He sets a pile of clothes on the sink and stands watching, arms crossed, as Malcolm hurriedly dries himself off. It’s disconcerting to have John staring, he can practically feel his eyes on him, following the motion of cloth over his body. He dresses as quickly as he can, leaning against the sink for balance as he pulls on raggedy flannel pants and an over-sized thermal shirt. They both hang off of him, and he has to cinch the drawstring of the pants tight around his waist to keep them from sliding off his hips, but they’re soft, and clean, and warmer than his dress pants and shirt. A gift. For good behavior.  _ See what obedience gets you? _ a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously close to John’s says.

John doesn’t shackle him. Yet. He leads him down the hall, further than Malcolm’s been brought before. There’s one door at the end. Malcolm can see a bed through the open door and his steps stutter. John jerks him forward with a growl. 

“You should be grateful. I could throw you back in the basement. But I want you with me. I’ve wanted you with me since you came here, Malcolm. You just weren’t ready yet.”

I’m not ready now, Malcolm thinks, though he doesn’t say it. He’s too tired, hurting too much still to fight the inevitable. When it comes to his body, John will get what he wants. His mind is all he has left that’s his own, now.

Malcolm’s shackles are looped around the headboard and John sits him on the bed and locks them back around his wrists. 

He’s given food for the first time that night. John sets a sandwich on a plate just within reach before leaving the room, and it takes everything within Malcolm not to eat it as quickly as possible. He knows his stomach would protest, and tears pieces off, chewing slowly before swallowing each bite down. 

The meal is cheap white bread, with only a few slices of thin deli meat sandwiched between the slices, and yet somehow it tastes like the best thing he’s ever eaten. Despite how slowly he goes he finishes it far too quickly, nearly crying with how hungry he still is when it’s gone. The small meal only serves to make the empty ache in his stomach worse, his body screaming for more. He whimpers as he thinks of what he’ll have to do to eat again, of what John intends to do with him in exchange for sleeping in this bed. He’s been afforded more comforts in an hour than he has in the span of nearly a week, but at what cost?

John’s lessons continue, and Malcolm struggles to resist, though it seems to grow harder with each passing hour of torment. He loses track of the days. John fucks him and feeds him at all hours of the day and night, and lectures him in between, or has him read the bible for hours, or drags him outside for more chores. 

Eating regularly and sleeping, even fitfully—shackled to the headboard, smothered beneath John’s oppressive weight—gives him his mental strength back, if not physical, and with it his ability to fight against John’s constant attempts at brainwashing him into submission. 

His body belongs to John, now, that much is clear. He controls every aspect of Malcolm’s physical existence, gives him everything he needs to survive, and takes from him what he wishes in return. John learns Malcolm’s body quickly, how to draw a reaction from Malcolm when they fuck, how to make him enjoy it, the final nail in the coffin of Malcolm’s physical submission to the other man. He’s always chained when John takes him. The first few times are all for John’s own pleasure from Malcolm as he stakes his claim, but then John holds true to his word. He starts  _ taking care _ of Malcolm, touching and kissing and learning Malcolm’s reactions.

The first time Malcolm begs John for pleasure he knows John’s ownership of his body is complete. He lays on his side in John’s bed, hands shackled above him, naked. John is behind him, pressed up against him, buried inside of him, rolling his hips leisurely as he teases Malcolm. He’s learned how sensitive the skin behind Malcolm’s ear is to even the slightest ghost of breath or nip of teeth, and he hovers there, whispering filth into Malcolm’s ear that makes him shudder in disgust even as the hot puff of air sends shivers of a different sort sparking down his spine.

He knows, now, how Malcolm gasps and squirms when his nipples are played with, and Malcolm can’t help the small sounds of pleasure that fall from his lips as John touches him, pinching his nipples, rolling the hardened nubs between two fingers, twisting and pulling until Malcolm is writhing against him and moaning like a whore. 

When Malcolm is whining and desperate John starts to fuck him in earnest. He pushes and pulls at Malcolm’s hip until he hits just right and Malcolm gasps at the assault against his prostate. And suddenly it’s all too much and yet not enough and before he can stop himself he’s calling out John’s name.

“Oh god, John, yes,  _ yes _ .”

John stills behind him, pinching the nipple he’d been teasing harshly as he moans into Malcolm’s ear. “Umph, oh, little Malcolm. I know I could make you beg for it, for me.”

Malcolm is panting, chest heaving and despite his own disgust at the words he’d let slip he’s still achingly hard and needy. 

“Let me hear you again, Malcolm,” John groans, twisting his fingers.

Malcolm starts to roll his own hips, fucking himself on John’s cock and he gives in, too desperate to fight it.

“Please, John, let me come.”

John groans so loudly Malcolm thinks he may have come from his words alone, but he starts fucking into him again, finds that spot, wraps a hand around Malcolm’s leaking cock and brings him off quickly while Malcolm begs, crying out his release, shuddering and sobbing in the aftermath.

His body may be John’s, but his mind is still his own. Malcolm still stubbornly refuses to repeat John’s mantras back to him most of the time. He won’t kill him, not now, he won’t let him die of thirst. He  _ thinks _ there’s nothing more John can do to him. He’s wrong.

John realizes his error quickly. The food stops coming, and he starts beating Malcolm once more, and forcing him to complete pointless, exhausting tasks in the woods surrounding the cabin as John recites passages of scripture, breaking him down bit by bit. 

Eventually, John’s patience is gone. It’s clear he’s ready to return to his former ‘mission’, that he’s had enough of Malcolm’s insolence and resistance, but he refuses to abandon his God-given duty, to kill again without Malcolm at his side. His temper grows shorter, and when he fucks Malcolm it’s harsh, angry, leaves him sore and aching, though John never makes him bleed. He can’t afford for Malcolm to be hurt too badly.

One day, John leaves him. He shackles him to the basement floor and Malcolm listens as he goes upstairs and out the door. He can hear the sound of a car engine starting, then fading as John drives off. He’s alone longer than he’s been since John took him, and Malcolm can’t help but wonder what could be keeping John away for so long. 

Then, he starts to worry—what if John is out killing? What if he is caught. Or was somehow killed, himself? Malcolm could be stuck, alone, chained to the floor ‘til he dies of thirst. He tries not to panic, tells himself he’s being dramatic, that John will come back. He has to come back, Malcolm needs him, he…

_ Stop _ , he whispers to himself.  _ Don’t think that way. He is a necessary evil. He’ll come back and you’ll wish he hadn’t. _

That turns out to be true. When John returns, finally, he brings a plastic shopping bag with him. He tosses it to the ground and the contents spill out; two lengths of rope. One thicker, coarse, the other thin and tightly braided. Malcolm eyes them warily, heart pounding, his emotions a jumbled mess of relief and dread and he has to bite his tongue before he says something foolish like ‘thank god you came back.’

“Did you miss me, little Malcolm?” John quips. He seems pleased with himself. 

Not with Malcolm, though. He ignores Malcolm after that. He sets to work only a few feet away from where Malcolm lies, watching in silence. John throws one end of the rope over a beam in the ceiling and lets it hang. Malcolm quickly begins to suspect what he intends to use it for, and his heart starts to pound in his chest, his breath coming faster as the pieces fall into place and a low grade panic starts to settle over him. He pushes himself up to his knees as John approaches, shrinking back instinctively.

“John, what-”

John lashes out, smacking him hard across the face and Malcolm rocks back, forced to catch himself on one hand to keep from falling over.

“If you refuse to speak the words I give you to say, you won’t speak at all,” he declares. “Give me your hands.”

Malcolm holds out his wrists obediently, but he can only lift them so far, and John is forced to squat in front of him to unlock the shackles. He removes only one, and pulls it free from the ring in the ground. As soon as it slides free Malcolm moves, lunging forward and striking out with the chain in an attempt to wrap it around John’s throat. The attack takes John by surprise and he reels back, nearly losing his balance, scrambling to stay upright which gives Malcolm even more of an advantage and he actually gets his hands on the other man.

His success is short lived. John recovers too quickly and easily overpowers him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back sharply, then throwing him to the floor and kicking him viciously in the stomach.

“Oh, Malcolm. You’ll regret that,” he snarls. He punches Malcolm hard across the face and his head smacks hard against the floor. Malcolm moans, stunned. Stars dance in his vision and he can’t seem to track John’s movements anymore.

John grabs the chain and yanks Malcolm forward by his wrist, dragging him along the ground as Malcolm scrambles to get his feet under him. The shackle cuts into his wrist, scraping at the skin, and his shoulder burns. Thankfully the distance is short, though John doesn’t release him. He re-attaches the second shackle deftly, then ties one end of the rope to the chain. Malcolm moans again, struggling weakly in a pathetic attempt at getting away, but John doesn’t even acknowledge his efforts. He pulls on the other end of rope and begins lifting Malcolm off the ground.

This time Malcolm does manage to get his feet under him, standing before the strain on his shoulders becomes too much. John pulls until his arms are stretched high above his head, and while his feet are firmly planted on the ground the stretch is still uncomfortable.

Malcolm opens his mouth only to snap it shut again as he realizes he has no idea what to say. Begging for mercy, promising to do better, he knows nothing will sway John. He knows what John wants him to say.

John ties off the end of the rope and comes to stand before Malcolm, looking him up and down in silent consideration before finally approaching. He reaches out and Malcolm’s flinches, but John just cups his face, stroking his thumb along Malcolm’s cheek tenderly.

“Oh, Malcolm. My little Malcolm. I don’t want to hurt you. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that you would realize your calling by now, realize the benefits of working with me, not against me.” He slides his hand down to wrap around Malcolm’s neck, stroking along the front of his throat. He seems genuinely distressed as he looks down at Malcolm, sighing, shoulders slumping as if defeated. He presses his thumb beneath Malcolm’s chin to tip his head up and leans in to press a kiss against Malcolm’s lips.

That takes Malcolm by surprise. John has kissed him before—in the heat of the moment when he’s fucked him, or after, in bed, dragging his lips along Malcolm’s skin or plundering his mouth, claiming him—but this is different. Tender, almost. Caring. Malcolm whimpers and tries to pull away but John wraps his other hand firmly around the back of Malcolm’s head and holds him in place. Malcolm sags, opening obediently when John swipes his tongue along Malcolm’s lips. He doesn’t return the kiss, but he knows better than to fight it. John always gets his way… 

John pulls away slowly and gazes down at Malcolm with something that looks frighteningly like love in his eyes. Malcolm shivers, unable to turn his head or look away.

“Tell me, Malcolm. Who do you belong to?” John asks, so softly it’s almost a whisper. “Don’t make me hurt you. You know the answer, I know you do.”

“I’m not a killer,” Malcolm replies, tone equally soft and quiet.

John’s face twists into an angry snarl and his hand tightens around Malcolm’s throat, cutting off his air and making him choke. He releases him quickly, only to pull back and slap him harshly across the face.

“Damn you, Malcolm. Why do you fight me? Why? Why did God give you to me only to keep you from surrendering to me fully?” he rages, stalking back and forth in front of Malcolm. 

Malcolm sags in his bonds, breathing hard as his head rings from the blow. He knows he’ll pay for his comment, but he can’t take it back now. And it’s true. No matter what John does to him, it will always be true.

John stalks away to where he left the shopping bag and grabs the second length of rope. Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat when he sees what it is—a bull whip.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he whispers, eyes widening in fear, breath coming faster. 

John returns, walking behind him and pulling his knife from where it always sits in a holster on his hip. Malcolm tries to twist around to keep him in his sight line but John kicks out at the back of his knee and Malcolm collapses, arms jerking painfully as he sags. He feels the cool of the knife on the skin of his lower back in a brief moment of warning before John slices his shirt in two.

“Oh god, John,” Malcolm breathes, regaining his feet and twisting far enough to meet the other man’s eyes. 

John refuses to look at him. He pushes the two sides of Malcolm’s shirt forward, baring his back. 

“John, please, I’m sorry, I—”

“Enough!” John barks. “Enough. No more promises, no more lies. I’ve been good to you, and yet you refuse me. Enough. You’ve brought this on yourself, Malcolm.”

John steps back and Malcolm sobs, trembling in anticipation of what’s to come.

The first strike hits low, just above his waistband, and it isn’t hard, but the tip lands on the thin skin above his spine and Malcolm jerks, nearly biting his own tongue as he snaps his mouth shut around a yelp of pain.

It’s clear that John has never wielded a whip before, and that terrifies Malcolm. His blows don’t contain the power that they could, but they’re erratic in their placements and all too often the distance is off and the whip curls around to his front, too. So while the damage could be worse, the pain is still intense, building with each blow.

He manages to stay mostly silent, grunting occasionally, gasping once when John hits high and the tip wraps around his neck, nearly hitting his face. But he’s shaking, his legs nearly buckling with each blow, his breath coming in ragged gasps between blows. John is panting from exertion behind him, and he pauses in his attack. Malcolm struggles to bring his breathing back under control during the short reprieve, and he can hear the other man shifting behind him, changing positions. When John starts in on him again, it’s like a switch has been flipped. The first blow strikes diagonally across his back, slashing from shoulder down to opposite ribs, and it  _ burns _ .

He cries out, too shocked by the sudden increase in intensity to hold it in. John seems to hit his stride then, raining down several more vicious blows in quick succession. Malcolm is sobbing and gasping for breath when he stops, his legs barely holding him upright, shoulders screaming, his back feeling as if it’s on fire.

“Tell me, Malcolm. Who do you belong to?” John asks, speaking for the first time since he’d begun. He’s breathing hard, but his voice is steady.

“God,” Malcolm whimpers. He can…he can give John that much. 

“Who did God give you to?” John presses.

Malcolm moans, shaking his head. “No, no, I can’t…” he mumbles.

He can hear the whip coming, but the warning does nothing to make it hurt less. His legs give out and he drops, the skin on his back stretching painfully tight as he hangs by his wrists, gasping at the pain. 

“John,  _ please _ , no more,” he begs as he struggles to regain his feet. “Please, please.”

"Say it again, little Malcolm. Who do you belong to?" 

_ Crack _ , the whip cuts across his back once more.

"G-God," Malcolm whimpers, sagging in his bonds.

"And who has God given you to?" John demands, striking him again.

Malcolm shudders, but knows now that the blows will come until he says it. They’re just words. They don’t mean anything, just words…

" _ You, _ John. You are m-my savior."

"That's right, little Malcolm. You were given to me, to do with as I see fit, to make you into what He intends you to be. My helpmate."

Malcolm groans at that, shaking his head in denial.

John sighs. "Again."

The next blow breaks skin, and he screams. John swears and pauses, which surprises Malcolm. Though, the whole time John has had him here, he’s been careful not to take things too far, to injure Malcolm too severely. He’s smart enough to know that seeking medical help or buying the wrong kinds of supplies would set off alarms. 

“Again, little Malcolm,” John says after a moment, and it sounds like he’s steeling himself, prepared to do what’s necessary. He strikes again, and the tip curls around Malcolm’s side and cuts into the sensitive skin of his lower belly. Malcolm howls, stopping only when he runs out of breath and can’t manage to take another because it hurts so damn much.

He’s shaking, crying openly, and he can’t ever remember experiencing a pain so intense. Black dots dance in his vision and he barely hears John speak again through the ringing in his ears.

“Who do you belong to?”

“God!” Malcolm practically screams. “God, and he gave me to—to you.  _ Unhg _ ,” he gasps, struggling to breath, to stay on his feet, to stay  _ conscious _ . “He gave me to you to be your helpmate. To work with you. John,  _ please _ !”

There’s a dull thud, the sound of something dropping to the floor, and then the rope loosens and Malcolm is being slowly lowered to the floor. He’s still but for the trembling in his legs and arms from the strain, breathing shallowly because it hurts too much to take a real breath.

“Oh god, oh god,” he sobs, pressing his forehead to the cool concrete floor as wave after wave of fiery pain washes over him. John frees his hands, lifts him to his feet, arm brushing against his beaten and bloody back, and Malcolm passes out.

***

In the end, the whip is what saves him. For all his care, John wasn’t careful enough. Or, he underestimated the reach of the still ongoing search for Malcolm. He's caught on camera while buying the whip, his car identified, tracked through traffic cameras and security footage, the search grid narrowed, the cabin discovered. It only takes a day after that.

It’s a day that Malcolm spends drifting in and out of consciousness, his body at it’s breaking point. John is worried, and it sends a thrill of sick satisfaction through Malcolm when he realizes this during one of his moments of lucidity. 

Malcolm’s surrender means nothing if he’s dead.

Malcolm isn’t even awake when SWAT storms the building, when Gil and Dani and JT rush into the bedroom where he lays on his front, back still bare, bandages covering the few open wounds but leaving enough of his bruised skin visible that it’s clear to see what had been done. He doesn’t hear Dani’s shocked gasp or see Gil nearly collapse in first fear that he was dead, then relief that they’d actually found him. He doesn’t see the way JT nearly tears up, or hear the way his voice catches when he calls the paramedics into the room.

He wakes up when the paramedics try to move him onto the stretcher. He jerks violently away as soon as the touch him, crying out in fear, then moaning pitifully as the pain sets in.

Gil is there in an instant, circling the bed to kneel in front of him, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes as he whispers his name over and over, tells him he’s safe.

Malcolm blinks rapidly, vision swimming, blurred with tears, but finally clearing enough that he can see Gil’s face. 

“Gil?” he whispers in disbelief. “Are you really here?”

“Yeah, kid. I’m here. And so are the paramedics, okay? Can they touch you?” Gil asks gently, still brushing over his hair.

“Hurts,” Malcolm whimpers.

“I know, kid. I know. They’re gonna help you, get you painkillers. But they have to move you, okay? They're going to lift you now. I know it hurts, but I promise you’re safe. I’ll be right here with you.” Gil continues to murmur reassurances to him as the paramedics work to move him. He does his best to stay in Malcolm’s sight line and keeps talking when he can’t.

Malcolm cries silently. Not in pain, but in exhausted relief. He survived. He was okay. He was hurt, a little battered, but not broken. And he’s going home. 

_ I’m not a killer. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you are enjoying this fic, love Prodigal Son, and are 18+, I'd love for you to come hang out on the brand new [Discord Server](https://discord.gg/6ytNM9jDBf) that SomeRainMustFall and I started! It is open to all ship-positive, kink-positive people who are looking for a space to chat, get to know, and enjoy the show with other fans in a safe and positive environment!
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr [here](http://prodigal-zoe.tumblr.com)! I'm always down to scream about the show and the characters!


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